


Mortifying Ordeals

by politeanarchy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Comfort, Comfort No Hurt, Dreams, Fluff, God Ships Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Other, Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21978049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/politeanarchy/pseuds/politeanarchy
Summary: The night after the bus, at Crowley's flat, Aziraphale sleeps, and dreams, and finds that all manner of things shall be well.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 108





	Mortifying Ordeals

**Author's Note:**

> Been feeling sad because of holiday stuff, so I wrote this brief thing to try and cheer myself up.

Aziraphale is startled to find himself awake.

It's a novel sensation. Not the _being awake_ part; he's spent his entire Earthly existence in such a state. But the surprise is new. His thoughts are slow and muddled. He prods at himself, mentally, and decides it must be because it's a change from a state of not-awake. In fact, he's surprised to be awake because for the first time in his life, he's been asleep. How odd.

Crowley is still sleeping, head pillowed on Aziraphale's shoulder, limbs curled around haphazardly. Aziraphale listens to him breathing, a faint hiss that's not quite enough to qualify as a snore. His very dear Crowley. Aziraphale is glad he's getting a bit of rest.

It's comfortable lying here with Crowley wrapped around him. He feels relaxed and boneless, as though he's floating in warm water. His thoughts swim closer to awareness, and he realizes it must be the light that woke him. The moon must have risen enough to shine through the skylight. His face is bathed in cool, piercing light, brighter and more insistent than one might expect; no wonder he couldn't stay asleep. It's beautiful. He basks in it a bit.

And then he hears the voice. He knows it (of course he knows it). He hasn't heard it in more than six thousand years, but it's more familiar to him than any other thing in the whole of the universe. The last time it spoke to him, it sounded stern. Now the tone is fond, maybe even slightly amused.

 _Aziraphale. Angel of the Eastern Gate,_ it says.

Aizraphale can barely breathe. In theory, he doesn't need to, but the lack of air in his lungs makes it hard to speak. "Yes, lord?" he manages faintly.

_Where is the flaming sword I gave you, Aziraphale?_

Aziraphale is trying to process this, these ancient, familiar words, when Crowley shifts slightly in his sleep, makes a small snuffling noise, and winds his arms around the angel a little more tightly. And Aziraphale realizes he knows the answer to the question.

"I gave it away," he says, wondering at his own audacity. But it's true. He gave the sword to that nice delivery man, while he and Crowley were sitting on the bench in Tadfield. And the delivery man took it away. Aziraphale came back to London without his flaming sword, with a demon instead. To this flat, to this bed, with Crowley, who loves him.

The cool, insistent light that isn't moonlight shifts around him, flickering slightly. He is surrounded by a sense of something enormous, far vaster and older than he is, powerful enough to unmake him in an instant if it chose to do so. Over the millennia, Aziraphale has watched many thousands of mothers hold their children. Until now, he has never wondered what it felt like. He wonders now, whether this is how children feel when their mother gathers them up in her arms. He is enfolded in light, no longer cool but warm and welcome as the embrace of a proud parent.

 _You were created of love, Aziraphale,_ the voice says. _Your purpose was to be a guardian and protector. In fulfilling your duties to Earth and its inhabitants, you have surpassed all My expectations._ He can't see anything, only light, but the sound of the voice is the shape of a smile. _You have done well, Aziraphale. Love, and be not afraid._

And now Aziraphale is awake, truly awake, empty of a fear he's been carrying for so long he's forgotten what it is like to be without it. Full to overflowing with a quiet, incomprehensible joy. He doesn't think he's moved, or made any sound, but Crowley is awake too.

"Angel, what happened? Are you all right? You're crying." Crowley's arms are still around him, until he unwinds one of them to wipe gently at Aziraphale's eyes.

"I—" Aziraphale breathes, looks up at the dark blank ceiling above him. "You don't have a skylight, do you?"

Crowley is confused. "Wha— a skylight? No. Not in here, anyway. One in the plant room."

"I think I was dreaming." He props himself up on a pillow, tears still running down his face, although he is also smiling, and glowing a little in the darkness.

"I'm not surprised you're having nightmares, after the day we've had," says Crowley. "Week. Well, the last eleven years, really."

"Not a nightmare." Aziraphale shakes his head, gently, as though to dislodge some particle of fluff that has become lodged in one ear. "I can't remember it properly, now. But I'm pretty sure everything is going to be all right."

" _Everything_ everything?"

Aziraphale laughs a little. He has stopped crying. "I don't know about _everything,_ of course. But I think our plan for dealing with our, er, former employers is going to work." He _knows_ it. He is suffused with a bone-deep certainty, through which little tickling bubbles of giddiness are starting to rise. He suddenly wants to shout with laughter, wants to leap up and launch himself into the sky with the sheer wonder and delight of existing, but instead cuddles back down into the bed, pulling Crowley close against him.

"Oh Crowley, I love you so much!"

"I love you too, Aziraphale."

Then they are kissing, and their bodies are warm and happy against each other, and there is still a little time until morning, when they will confront their future and their fate. Whatever it turns out to be.

After that, there is very little actual talking, just a few vaguely murmured affirmations and encouragements, except that once, Crowley pauses, sniffs the air, waves his tongue around to get a better sense of whatever it is he's noticed, and asks "This is going to sound kind of crazy, but just for a second, did it smell like _popcorn?"_

**Author's Note:**

> I also have a Good Omens [Tumblr](https://politeanarchy.tumblr.com)!


End file.
